#trpw2019

The memory of it rushes through him like the strongest of drinks, warming his face and neck and ears until he begins to sweat beneath his uniform. Edward, hair mussed, readying himself for sleep. His braces hanging limp from his trousers, bare from the waist up. Irving nearly stopped dead when he caught sight of him, just past the door to Edward’s berth. Shamefully, he had to tamp down the urge to trace his steps backward for a second look.

He clutches his pen tighter, grip made insecure by perspiration, and the shaft slips tantalizingly in his hand.

Jesus! What a friend for sinners. Jesus, lover of my soul. He hums quietly to himself, picking a pitch slightly too high and a tempo slightly too quick. Friends may fail me, foes assail me. He, my savior, makes me whole.

John imagines himself in Bridgens’ place. He pictures himself helping Edward untie his cravat, how his knuckles would brush against the stubble on his neck. He’d help him out of his shirtsleeves, fingers steady and practiced on the buttons.

He presses the tip of his pen too hard against the parchment, and it tears, ink pooling beneath the nib like blood.

Hallelujah! What a savior! Hallelujah! What a friend!

John imagines how Edward’s nipples might pebble in the cold of his berth; how his skin might tighten with gooseflesh and the way he might shiver, muscles tensing just underneath.

He exhales shakily through his nose, desperately trying to regain control of himself. His trousers have begun to grow tight, and he daren’t look down at his lap for fear of what he may find.

Saving, helping, keeping, loving, He is with me to the end.

These thoughts are not new; they have come to him frequently throughout the short span of his life, but never has he found it quite so difficult to silence them. It is not as though he is unused to being in close quarters with men. On the contrary—as a Navy man, it is a situation to which he has grown accustomed. He has always found comfort at sea, has found a sort of poetry in surrounding himself with temptation and rising above it.

But here, hunched over his desk humming hymn tunes, with his pen unmoving and his prick hard in his pants, he wonders if this will be one fight he does not win.

John remembers descending to the orlop in search of Mr. Hickey. Remembers the shock and horror and arousal which had come with finding Mr. Gibson instead, disheveled and limping. He has thought of that encounter often in the time that has passed since. Has even gone so far as to imagine taking Edward down there—to envision himself guiding the lieutenant’s trousers down his thighs and putting a hand on him.

He whimpers, prick jumping in his smalls.

Jesus! He sings with near-silent desperation, opening his mouth to fit his lips around the word. The sound is breathy and high in this small space, thin as chiffon and twice as fragile. What a strength in weakness! Let me hide myself in Him.

His right hand still clutches his pen, though he has forsaken all thought of writing. He cannot remember where he stopped.

John’s other hand is clenched into a tight fist atop his thigh. His groin aches with its closeness. It would be so easy, he thinks lightheadedly, to press it against himself. To relieve the pressure, just for a moment. No one would know.

Perhaps—

Perhaps Edward would hear him. His singing, or his sighs, or what little whimpers he cannot stifle. He would think him in pain, maybe, and come see what befell him. He would slide the door aside after knocking, not waiting for a response, and would find Irving with his hand between his legs. His mouth would fall open, and he would stand there for a moment, shocked. But that shock would give way to something else. Something hungry. He’d watch John with heated eyes. He’d slide the door shut behind him, and when he turned back around, John would see the telltale swell of his trousers.

He would have stopped touching himself when Edward entered, mortification stilling his hand, but it would rouse itself to motion now, with the weight of the lieutenant’s full focus turned on him. John’s prick would ache beneath his own hand, and he would breathe heavy and desperate though his mouth and nose. In contrast, Edward would move slowly, ever the picture of restraint. He would make John wait. He would test the limits of his eagerness, would kneel between John’s legs and take his face in his hands and—

John whimpers. His hips buck up into his palm and he gasps, pen falling from his fingertips and clattering against the floor.

James straightened in his chair. “Do I?" he said, apologetically. "I slept rather badly, I’m afraid.”

“You should ask the doctor to fix you some drops after breakfast.”

“No, I… It’s quite all right, sir. I had a bad dream, and I woke with a start. I could not fall asleep afterwards.”

“A bad dream? What did you dream of? The war?”

James stared down at the empty table. He should just say a muted yes; Sir John would understand and would not press on. Instead, for a reason he could not fathom, he answered, like a fool, “No, sir. It was a strange dream. You were in it.”

Sir John's eyebrows shot up. “I was in it? Oh dear.” 

James felt his face warming with shame at the jocular tone. He should have kept quiet. Mister Hoar entered the cabin with the breakfast plates just then, mercifully sparing him more teasing. James stared down at the food as it was served. It did not look appetizing. Then again, it never did. Sir John waited until the steward left the room to speak again.

"Tell me about your dream," he said.

"I'd rather not," James said, and picked up his fork.

"James," Sir John said, and covered his hand with his own. "It's all right. You can tell me."

He swallowed, the gentle tone getting to him in spite of himself.

"It was only a dream," he said, relenting. "We were in Ancient Rome, apparently. At least, we were dressed like it. With togas and the likes." He looked up, expecting to find Sir John laughing, but he was only staring at him, plainly interested. "I do believe you were Caesar."

"Caesar!" Sir John looked taken aback. "How did you know?"

"I just knew. We were playing some chess-like game. I was cross with you towards the end, but I cannot recall why. It was very vivid. Disturbingly so."

"I was Caesar and you were with me? Well, who were you, then? Mark Anthony?"

"Perhaps so. I don't quite know."

"I think you'd make a dashing Mark Anthony. It's fitting, wouldn't you say? My second in command. My trusted right hand."

Once again, James found his face warming, the unexpected compliment kindling something inside him he had not expected to feel.

"Thank you," he said, softly. 

"As a matter of fact," Sir John added, in a lighter tone, "I think I'd make a rather formidable Caesar myself."

James couldn't help returning the smile. "I have to agree," he said, lightly as well. "There's something regal in your bearing."

"Oh, come now, James, it's too early in the morning for such empty flattery."

"I mean it," James said, deadly serious, and no sooner he'd spoken that he realized he wasn't Mark Anthony at all. He was Brutus. He did not know how he knew. He could not bear holding Sir John's gaze and looked down at his plate. The look of the sauce splattered on the food made him feel ill. If he was Brutus, it meant he'd killed Caesar. He'd killed Sir John. He did not want to do that. He did not mean to do that.

"Very well, then," Sir John said, noticing nothing of his change in mood. "Maybe you'll get a chance to relieve your wildest fantasies ere this journey is over. Roman costumes are quite the rage in London, I hear."

There was something conspiratorial in his gaze that James did not understand. He replied nothing. You died, he thought. You are going to die, and it will be my fault. It chilled him to the bones.

"There's nothing wrong with having an overactive imagination, my dear James," Sir John added. "Do not look so crestfallen. Should you have one of your Ancient Rome dreams again, come see me, no matter how late the hour."

"I wouldn't dare to bother you with such frivolities," James said, bemused.

"I insist."

"Then I must do as you command, sir."